


Withdrawal

by Lorquian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 11:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1981830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorquian/pseuds/Lorquian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes didn't think withdrawal could affect him enough to make him remember The Woman. For the Midnight space for the Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Sherlock Rare Pair Bing Card!

(God, it's so empty right now)

 


	2. Withdrawal

11:00 pm

The tall and dark figure of the detective crept into the alley. Protected by the shadows and the cloudy night, he stared blankly at his phone screen, making sure it was eleven o’clock. He was never late, at least not for this. It had been 2 weeks since their last meeting, and at the moment John was already noticing how irritable he’d been. No case, no distraction. His fingers tapped his thigh over the fabric of the coat. He wanted to take off the dark coat, but it’d be pointless, the pressure he was feeling came from inside. He knew. And his own brain seemed to be against him.

There was nothing more dangerous than to let his mind discourse freely. The headache didn’t help him keep the situation under control. His hand reached for his phone and the bright screen lit his face, hurting his eyes.

 

11:01 pm

He needed to stop. Anxiety was taking over him, leaving him useless and nervous.

_Think. Think. Think._

But about what? About getting to Baker Street? About shutting the door and locking the entire flat? About needles, about the high, about how he’d feel in a couple of days, about being dragged around by his brother and slapped by Molly and getting those disappointed stares from John and Molly and resourcing to nothing…

His mind palace. It was the only place he considered safe. The dark walls and long corridors welcomed him to what he knew. However everything seemed different. The wooden doors were broken, open or out of place. Some of the walls were knocked down and he was able to gaze what was inside. Memories, random knowledge escaping from the perfectly categorized rooms, taking up all of the space and smothering him…

 

11:05 pm

He checked the time again, and he finally noticed he was sweating and shaking slightly. He couldn’t even retreat to the only safe location. What was he supposed to think then? The palace claimed control over his thoughts again, and he didn’t fight back.

Nearly his entire palace was now in ruins, and it seemed to go darker and colder as he walked towards a door. The natural noise from the street was covered by ghost-like fragments of his life roamed the halls next to him. He tried to run away, even if he knew there was no place to hide from his own disaster. A corridor to the right was strangely empty and he sought refuge there.

Sherlock noticed immediately the smell of vanilla and sandalwood. He looked around, trying to find the source, since there was a single woman he knew who used that scent. The lingering perfume led him down the hall. The destruction seemed to vanish as the scent almost asphyxiated him.

_Irene. I know you’re here, you might as well show up._

It was almost too dark to perceive anything but her fragrance, teasing him. Walking with his hands in front of him, he ultimately reached a door.

_She’s in there, playing with you, one of those games she’s so fond of._

That seemed to be John’s voice, but he couldn’t be sure. He ignored it and violently opened the door. Light. A large room bathed in sunlight. Pristine furniture in cream and white undertones, a fireplace, a mirror hiding a safe, but she wasn’t where he expected to see her. She wasn’t waiting for him in her battle dress with a smirk.

_Did you expect to find me there, detective? I guess your abilities are getting rusty._

Her voice came from behind him. Sherlock felt his heart pounding against his chest, his head turning to find the teasing voice. She was mocking him, and it irritated him.

-Are you going to run again? - He uttered, as a couple of passers-by startled the detective. When he gripped his phone he noticed his palms were sweating slightly.

 

11:15 pm

Anxiety clutched his throat and he felt disgusted of himself. His breathing pattern was erratic and he looked around.

_Oh, brother dear, why do you expect to find her? Do you actually care?_

His mind was tricking him, he knew. Withdrawal was affecting him enough to tamper with his thinking process. He wished he could just tell his brother to shut up.

Nevertheless, it seemed futile to fight with his mind taking him into overwhelming recollections. However he found another sunny memory. A hotel room, in a nameless, meaningless city where he had a hit. And that smell again. The sheets were saturated with it, as well as his memory. The night before she’d found him as he spied on a target he was supposed to take down the next day. Her face was still the same, garnished with a victorious little smile as she sat across him at the restaurant where he was waiting. He didn’t refuse her dinner proposal. Months later, Sherlock blamed the lack of contact for prolonged periods for his moment of weakness. But he couldn’t deny how ecstatic it was to feel her tremble on top of him, hear her soft moans or run his hands up and down her fragile body.

She hadn’t left by the time he woke up. It was late, but when he got up he took a moment to admire how the sunlight kissed her porcelain skin. He dressed up and left the room knowing he wouldn’t find her there when he returned. _If_ he returned.

He did, and she was gone, the only thing she’d left behind was a note. "Tomorrow in the battle think of me…" was the very first line, taken from Shakespeare. He couldn’t recall what came next, even if those lines haunted him for a long time, in every battle, every morning.

 

11:23 pm

“You’re late” Sherlock spat as a thin and short man entered the alley. It was him, the detective knew even if his vision was blurry. The man started to make up excuses for being late, but Sherlock clenched his teeth and stared at him.

“How much?”

“Same as usual” the man replied, and gave him the little bag with white powder.

 

11:55 pm

During the cab ride back to Baker Street, the detective had experienced severe nausea and his neck muscles were tight and sore. He closed his eyes, hoping to see another bright memory, even if he first found nothing but the debris of his palace. Then, ivory. The ivory of her skin against the ivory of the cheap sheets, ivory from her notes. He felt sick going up the stairs to the flat and dropped on the couch, shivering slightly.

 

Midnight

His mind was slowly setting, and his thoughts began to clear up. Colors reappeared on his mind as his body relaxed, completely laid back in the couch. The black destruction and the ivory recollections became the petrified sea in her eyes contrasting with the fire of her lips.  Many, many colors unfolded behind his closed eyes, next to a particular smell and a single sentence.

_“Tomorrow in the battle think of me”_

**Author's Note:**

> (Not my best, but welp)


End file.
